


the worst (best) thing

by agentcalliope



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentcalliope/pseuds/agentcalliope
Summary: The worst thing, he thinks, is that he remembers it all.And when he looks into the mirror, The Doctor stares back.





	the worst (best) thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clearascountryair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/gifts).



> This is a gift for the Jemma Simmons to my Daisy Johnson, Em. I love you so much and even though I made you beta this I hope you like it <3

* * *

 

The worst thing, he thinks, is that he remembers all of it.

 

His fingers grip the sink as he leans forward, head bowed, inhaling and exhaling inhaling and exhaling inhaling and—

It’s too much.

 

Everyone and everything. He can’t escape. He blinks rapidly but the world becomes more unfocused, unreal, and his heart beats unnaturally fast.

His left hand begins to shake.

He keeps his head bowed.

 

(He can’t look at his hands. His hands that have always created, and never stopped. His hands that built good and decent things.

His hands that are covered with blood with fingers that pulled the trigger.

His hands that _tortured_.)

 

He remembers enjoying it.

 

Remembers wanting her approval and love. Needing it. Remembers feeling that he would cross the universe for her, and thinking that this is who he was, and that he knew who he was.

He remembers killing for her.

(It makes him feel sick.)

 

Somebody’s knocking at the door, calling his name. He thinks it might be Jemma.

He doesn’t care.

Fitz finally lifts his head, and stares into the mirror.

 

But all he can see is The Doctor staring back.

-

The worst thing, he cries, is that he’ll never be clean.

 

The steam from the shower blurs his vision but he looks down and he sees that his hands are still red, no matter how many times he scrubs them. He grips the sponge tighter in his fist and rubs harder, faster, harder and faster and faster and harder and he grits his teeth through the pain because he _deserves_ this.

 

Someone knocks at the door, calling his name again. He knows that it’s Jemma.

He doesn’t care.

 

He turns up the temperature and sits on the tiled shower floor, trying to scrub every inch of his body-- trying to scrub every inch of all the dirt that ever covered him. The water burns but so do the memories, and he blinks through the tears that seem to burn just as hot.

“ _Fitz!_ ”

He hadn’t even heard the door open. But suddenly Jemma’s there, turning the water off and waving away the steam, placing a hand on his shoulder before she kneels down.

 

(If he thought the water burned, that his memories and tears burned, then he doesn’t know what he could possibly call her touch.)

 

Jemma gently pries the sponge out of his hand and replaces it with her own, interlocking his red fingers with her pale ones.

“Oh, Fitz.”

She holds on to him, and she holds on tight.

Fitz stares at her leg where he knows she was stabbed, and then stares at her neck where he knows she was strangled, and he feels dirty again.

 

He wishes that he would’ve just drowned.

-

The worst thing, he whispers, is that Jemma’s hurting too.

 

Jemma bites her bottom lip and doesn’t answer, sitting in the chair with her shoulders straight and her chin held high. He paces across from her, back, forth, back and forth forth and back fisting his hands in his hair trying to remember not to remember.

“Fitz, stop, please. You’re hurting yourself.”

“Well, all I do is hurt you.”

“ _Stop_ it.”

He stops pacing and lowers his hands, standing in front of her and this is _Jemma_ and yet he still can’t look at her in the eye.

“Go ahead, tell me it’s not true,” Fitz goads, his voice rising. “Tell me.”

Jemma stands up abruptly and her eyes blaze with a certain kind of fire that he’s seen before. “Fine. I’ll tell you. LMD you stabbed me in the leg and then tried to strangle me. Then I had to watch as Framework you shot Agnes. I had to watch all these versions of you do horrible, horrible things but I know that they weren’t you. And that hurts the _most_.”

 

Jemma inhales shakily, and Fitz exhales unevenly.

“Because I still love you.” Jemma continues. “I will _always_ love you. I love you so, so much. I love your brain and the good that it does, and your hands and the good that they do, and I love you because you are such a good, decent human being. But I saw what I saw, and I can’t forget that.”

 

She leaves him there, head bowed, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to forget it all, too.

-

The worst thing, he shouts, is that he doesn’t know if he was always capable of doing what he did, or if it programming.

 

He can’t look at her. He’s afraid to. He’s afraid that if he glances at her face he’s going to see the bruised cheeks, the blood matting the hair, the pain in her eyes.

The pain, yes. But also the love.

(It’s a love he doesn’t deserve.)

 

His right hand starts to sting, like it did when he hit her, so he massages it with his shaking left hand and keeps his head lowered, sitting on the edge of the couch.

 

But Daisy laughs. He’s surprised, but not surprised enough to break his focus on the ground. Besides, he knows that laugh. It’s the laugh you do when all you can do is laugh, because otherwise you might cry.

 

“Depending on the circumstances,” Daisy says. “Anyone is capable of anything.”

“I hurt so many people.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I hurt Mack.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I hurt May.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I hurt--”

“Fitz.” Daisy interrupts, reaching out and pulling on his shoulder, forcing him to finally face her.

“You did. You did hurt a lot of people, and you did lots of things that were horrible. _Are_ horrible. But that is not who you are. Everyone knows that. You are much more than The Doctor could ever be.”

“But... what if he’s always been in _me_?”

Daisy doesn’t reply. She wraps her arms around him and places her head in the crook of his neck, and for a moment it feels like everything’s going to be okay.

 

Except that she never answers his question.

 

And that answers his question.

-

The worst thing, he decides, is that he remembered too much.

 

Coulson shakes his head.

“Nah, the opposite, I think. My brain’s tired of being brainwashed, and decided enough is enough.” He tries to joke, although it’s not funny at all. “I guess TAHITI was a good thing, after all.”

 

Fitz looks at the ground and wonders if it would be a good thing for him, too.

-

The worst thing, he croaks, is that there’s no escape.

 

“No, there isn’t-- trust me, I’ve tried.”

 

He finds that May’s the only one that really understands. He offers her his beer and she takes a swig, peering at the label before handing it back to him. They both stare out the window, silence creeping into the room.

But it’s the kind of silence that’s welcomed, that’s wanted. It’s the kind of silence that they both need right now.

(Just knowing that they know how the other feels, is enough.)

“That a new brand?” She finally says, although they both know the answer.

“Nope, the same as its always been.” He looks down and mumbles to the floor, and doesn’t mention about how nothing feels the same anymore.

It’s some time before May speaks again.

“I think tomorrow I’m going to go visit him.”

“Mhmm.”

She reaches out and he hands her the bottle. This time, she takes a long swig.

“You want to come?”

Fitz pretends to mull it over. “Not really,” he says after a couple of seconds.

“Might be good.”

“Might be bad.”

May grunts. “Well, you’ll never know until you go, right?”

She touches his arm lightly and leaves, leaving him standing at the window with a near empty bottle of beer in his hands.

He looks up.

 

The sun sets.

-

The worst thing, he says, is that you had to lose her again.

 

“Fitz, you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but I do now.” Fitz’s fingers twitch and he clenches them into fists as he speaks. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Turbo--”

“Don’t call me that.” Fitz’s hoarse voice cuts into Mack’s baritone one. There’s the silence. It’s not the silence Fitz has with May, but the silence that makes the hairs rise on your arms and makes your heart pound fast. The kind of silence that screams with everything that isn’t said.

It’s the kind of silence that haunts.

 

Fitz lowers his head.

Mack sighs, shaking his head and leaning forward in his seat.

“ _Turbo_ \--”

“Mack! I’m not a kid!” Fitz stands up and walks quickly away.

(I’m not _your_ kid, he thinks.)

 

Like the night before and the night to come, he doesn’t sleep.

-

The worst thing, Fitz says, is that he was sure of his choice.

The best thing, May replies, is that he’s sure now.

 

They stand together, side by side, looking down at the plain headstone that was erected weeks ago. May’s holding the flowers that they both had picked out, a full bouquet that’s beautiful but won’t pardon them from what they’ve done. Fitz fidgets with the smooth stone he clenches in his fist. They both stare at the name etched in the stone for a long, long time.

“You ever visit anyone before?” May asks.

“Yeah. Trip.”

“No. I mean, someone that you felt responsible for.”

“Oh. No, then.”

“I visit Andrew a lot.” May responds to his unsaid question, and the silence begins to creep back.

 

And that’s when May tells him about Bahrain.

 

Fitz clears his throat, and looks at the sky.

(It’s a beautiful day.)

“Do you, uh, ever visit Katya’s grave?”

“Before? Not so much. But now, I try to go whenever I can.”

He turns his head towards her. “Why?”

“Because it’s hard. Because I still see her face before I go to sleep, and my fingers still burn from the trigger. And because I need to remind myself that even though I couldn’t save this kid, maybe I can save another.”

She turns to look at him and he quickly looks away, focusing again on the stone.

“When will it stop hurting?”

“It won’t.”

He laughs curtly.

(He knows it’s the same kind of laugh that Daisy did. The laugh where you laugh because if you don’t you might cry. He looks at May and thinks that she knows that, too.)

 

“But you keep going,” May finishes. “And you make damn sure that you do your best.”

May crouches and places the bouquet on the ground, and Fitz places the stone on the tombstone.

 

 

They came together, and they go together, on this beautiful day, away from The Director’s grave and back _home_.

-

The worst thing, Fitz croaks, is that Mack will never get to be her dad.

The best thing, Mack replies, is that if he was, he would’ve never joined.

 

“Never joined SHIELD, and never would’ve met you, Turbo. How could I ever regret that?”

Fitz cracks a small smile, and Mack gestures with his head and beckons with his arms wide open.

 

And, like a child, Fitz folds into his embrace perfectly.

-

The worst thing, Fitz decides, is that Coulson had his mind messed up. Again

The best thing, Coulson replies, is what are the odds of it happening? _Again?_

 

Fitz laughs for the first time in weeks.

 

Coulson chuckles back, and slings his arm around Fitz’s shoulders.

-

The worst thing, Fitz shouts, is that Daisy hasn’t screamed at him yet.

The best thing, Daisy replies, is that she hasn’t _quaked_ him yet.

 

He knows she doesn’t mean it, and that’s what makes him so furious.

He gets up and kicks the chair, sliding his hands across the desk and sending papers scattering to the floor.

“Get angry!” He screams, his clenched fists at his sides, muscles tensed. “I was a monster! I _hit_ you! Hit me back!”

“I’m not going to hit you, Fitz.”

“Why the _fuck_ not?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But I hurt _you_!” Fitz stumbles to the ground, shaking as he collapses and sits, burying his head in his hands.

He doesn’t look up, but he feels Daisy sit beside him.

“What The Doctor did, and what Leopold Fitz does are two very different things,” Daisy says slowly. “Before you asked if you had The Doctor in you the whole time. I didn’t respond because I don’t know the answer. Would it make a difference? Fitz…”

She pulls his hands away from his face, and holds them gently, blinking back tears.

“When I… when I was choking you, that was me. I was under Hive’s sway, but it was me. I remember. And what did you do, after?”

Fitz sniffles. “I forgave yo-”

“You forgave me. Right away. Because even though those were my actions they weren’t _me_. And I could never, _ever_ hurt you.”

“But you still ran.” Fitz cuts in.

Daisy shrugs. “Because the hardest person to forgive is yourself.”

-

The worst thing, Fitz whispers, is that he can’t look at himself, either.

The best thing, Jemma replies, is that that means he’s _back_.

 

It’s the first night that they can sleep in the same bed together again.

He strokes her hair and she doesn’t flinch from his touch, and she strokes his cheek and her touch doesn’t burn.

 

“But I still look in the mirror and I just see _Him_. The Doctor. I see him hurting and killing all those people who were just strands of codes and all those people who weren’t. And I feel sick. I see the man my father raised me to be, and I feel sick. I see the man AIDA used, and I’m sick to my stomach. I’m sick and tired and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“And that’s what makes you human.” Jemma says.

That’s good.

He was starting to worry.

-

The worst thing, Fitz cries, is that he never wanted any of this.

(The best thing, Fitz cries, is that he got it anyway.)

The common area is decorated with streamers and little paper cut out monkeys that climb the walls holding paper cut out bananas. There’s a sign that says _Happy Birthday Fitz!_ And even a little bundle of presents on a table in the back.

The team stands in the center, beaming at him. Yoyo holds out the cake, its candles burning bright.

“Make a wish, birthday boy!” she sings.

 

(there’s too many things to wish for, though.)

-

The worst thing, Fitz thinks, is that he has to forgive himself.

(The best thing, Fitz thinks, is that he’s slowly getting there.)

 

His fingers grip the sink as he leans forward, head bowed, inhaling and exhaling inhaling and exhaling inhaling and—

It’s too much.

Everyone and everything. He can’t escape. He blinks rapidly but the world becomes more unfocused, unreal, and his heart beats unnaturally fast.

 

But Fitz still lifts his head and he looks into the mirror.

 

And he sees himself staring back.


End file.
